


Your Arms

by Giuls_Nana



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Petting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-04-24 06:42:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4909228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Giuls_Nana/pseuds/Giuls_Nana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finding Illya in those horrible conditions is painful for everyone but, surprisingly, for Napoleon Solo is like a violent punch in the face. </p><p>"It took them more than a week to find Illya, in the hideout where the ex KGB agents had locked him. A whole week...<br/>Napoleon doesn't even blink as almost 220 pounds of solid man leaned against him, like dead weight. He spreads his legs a little and lets it happen. Unconsciously, Illya clinged to him with all the strenght that remained in him, hiding his face against Napoleon's neck.</p><p>"Hey, I got you. It's all right now."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Arms

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize in advance for all the possible mistakes. Sorry, english is not my mother language!
> 
> Song: Arms by Christina Perri

It took them more than a week to find Illya, in the hideout where the ex KGB agents had locked him. A whole week.

At the sight of him, haning by the wrists from a beam stuck into the wall, Gaby lets out a scream, covering her mouth with her hand to muffle the wound. She takes a step back, bumping against Napoleon's chest.

Napoleon, a man who never stopped smiling his mischievous smile, is now like paralyzed. His true mood is betrayed only by his cerulean eyes, fixed on the dried blood around Illya's wrists, and his hands, clenched so hard that his knuckles turned white.

Illya's still alive. They felt it as soon as they stepped into the room; his breath was weak, but the soft sound echoed against the walls, clearly audible even from that distance.

Only that had stopped Napoleon from throwing himself in the middle of the room, the risk of stepping into a trap forgotten.

_"Hurry, pull him down."_

When Waverly says these words, given the all-clear to let his men intervene, Solo steps forward before anyone else, gently pushing Gaby out of the way. The utility knife appears in his hand almost like magic, and in a split second the ropes around Illya's wrists are gone.

An inhuman sound escapes from Illya's lips. Finally free, he lets his body collapse, not giving a shit if he ended on the floor or otherwise.

Napoleon doesn't even blink as almost 220 pounds of solid man leaned against him, like dead weight. He spreads his legs a little and lets it happen. Unconsciously, Illya clinged to him with all the strenght that remained in him, hiding his face against Napoleon's neck.

_"Hey, I got you. It's all right now."_

_"C-Cowboy?"_

Illya's strained, surprised whisper gives Napoleon a shiver down his back. He looks down at him, only to notice that Illya still has his eyes closed, but now there's a little, sweet smile on his hurt, tortured and bleeding face.

_"Who were you expecting? Lyndon Johnson?"_

The joke dies in his throat as he realizes the strenght of the rage and the pain that he felt, seeing Illya so brutally injured.

He slowly moves his hand from the Russian's back to his blonde hair, gently stroking it for a moment.

Two agents bring in a stretcher, and Napoleon helps them lie Illya over it. Every movement is a gasp of pain; when Kuryakin is finally lying down, Solo moves out of the way so that the agents can lift him and carry him away.

It's just a brief moment, while the men are loading Illya on the truck, that his blue eyes open a little crack; they lie on Napoleon's face, jaw and neck stained with his blood, completely unaware of anything else but Illya's gaze focused on him.

\-----------------------------

The medical treatments were successful with no complications. Given Illya's physical prowess and history, nobody was surprised.

It was when the KGB medical facilty main psychiatrist came into the waiting room with a worried and serious expression that everybody tensed up.

 _"Not that Mr. Kuryakin has ever been the most sociable,"_ Waverly reminds them when the doctor informed them that Illya had refused to speak of what happened.

 _"Maybe he would open up more easily with us,"_ Gaby says, glancing behind herself, towards Napoleon.

He ignores her; he seems like he's focused on something else, something far away into the corridor which the psychologist has come from.

After last week, in which the slightiest matter was enough to make him lose it, stretched thin with worry every time that Illya was mentioned, he looks like a completely different person. Motionless, attentive and silent like a cat, waiting for something to go wrong. Nobody had ever seen him like this.

_"It doesn't have to be a particularly emotional talk, but agent Kuryakin has to deal with what happened to him. For his own good, he cannot ignore it and wait for it to go away."_

Waverly and Gaby sigh loudly, almost in unison, nodding politely. The doctor excused himself and headed toward his office.

There's a long, long minute of silence, and then Napoleon speaks up.

_"The mission is almost over, but the apartment is still available for a few days. We'll go there."_

Waverly and Gaby both turned to look at him, a question mark in their expressions.

_"Waverly, I'm asking you to cover for me and Gaby for just a few days, while we keep an eye on Peri- uhm, agent Kuryakin."_

Napoleon turns his gaze to Gaby. As soon as she analyzes the information just heard, she nods vigorously, confirming herself as integral part of the plan.

Waverly fixes his glasses, puts his hands inside the pockets and walks until he's right side by side with Napoleon.

_"What apartment, Solo?"_

It wasn't really a question. That is to say, it wasn't a question at all. Waverly rises an eyebrow at the American, to be sure they had an understandment, and walks toward the hospital's exit.

Only when he's sure that Waverly is no more in sight, Napoleon turns him to watch his back leaving, and lets out a deep breath.

Waverly is in. He's gonna help them. Solo doesn't need anything else.

Slender, warm fingers slip between his own, and firmly squeeze his hand. Gaby's hand is slightly trembling, still shaken by the last hours and by the grueling past week.

He doesn't turn around. He knows that if he did, if he looked her in the eyes, she wouldn't let herself vent all the cooped up anger and pain through the tears that Napoleon is sure are slipping on her cheeks in this moment.

\-----------------------------

Going back to the apartment was easy, with Illya's unstoppable desire to leave the hospital. When he got out, Gaby hugged him and guided him to the car, while Napoleon hardly gave him even a glance through his sunglasses, sliding in the driver seat.

The house is on two floors, two apartments connected by an internal staircase. As soon as they got there, Napoleon left again, telling Gaby not to wait for him, and that he was gonna be back later in the evening.

The afternoon went quietly, with Illya playing chess by himself and Gaby sunk in the armchair pretending to read a book, while tossing casual questions at Illya, trying to get him to talk, but with no success.

She was barely able to make him drink some water, let alone eating, and by the end of the evening Illya simply warned her that he's going to bed, heading alone up the stairs, into the other apartment.

After he was gone, she protested, cursed and threw random things on the floor, attempting to calm herself, until Napoleon arrived. When he was told what happened, he gave her a warm pat and a hug, and convinced her to rest a little.

Now alone in the living room downstairs, Napoleon does what everyone would do in a similar situation: he goes out on the porch, and throws a chair into the garden below.

Is this what Illya feels, during his rage fits?

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, feeling the night's cool air sting on his face like hundreds of sharp pins. He cannot force out of his mind the horrible view that hit him when he stepped in the hideout. The view of Illya hanging by his wrists, bleeding and exhausted.

An unexpected punch that he didn't think could be so painful.

He opens his eyes. They burn, because of the cold air, and because... of something else.

He goes back into the house, takes off his jacket and heads upstairs, rolling up his sleeves as he climbs the stairs.

Sleeping is out of discussion.

He may as well find something else to do staying closer to Illya.

\-----------------------------

 

I hope that you see right through my walls...

 

 

 

 

>   
>  Fear.  
>  CLICK  
>  A knife.  
>  Pain. Blood. A whiff of metal.  
>  "Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin, born 25th July, 1931."  
>  CLACK  
>  A gun.  
>  "Number two, section two, Operation U.N.C.L.E."  
>  Sweat. Ropes. Blood.  
>  "You cannot save them"  
>  Long blond hair. Sweet smile.  
>  "My little Illya ..."  
>  CRACK  
>  Heavy breathing. Screams. Tears.  
>  Tac. Tac. Tac. Tac. Tac. Tac. Tac. Tac.  
>  Hooks. Ache. Light.  
>  "You won't save them"  
>  Wide shoulders. Deep voice.  
>  "Be good, my boy."  
>  CRACK  
>  Bones. Light. Too much light.  
>  No air. Nothing. Just pain.  
>  Delicate hand. Soft skin.  
>  Gaby.  
>  "You cannot save them."  
>  Blood. Sweet dark eyes. Tears.  
>  "You will not save them."  
>  Dark hair. Mischievous smile.  
>  Gaby?  
>  Cerulean eyes. Veiled. Lifeless.  
>  No, Gaby...  
>  Blood. Pain. Fear.  
>  CRACK  
>  "You cannot save **him**."
> 
>  
> 
>  

_"NO!!!"_

The scream turns real, searing and violent in his throat.

He sits up, sweating, his shirt stuck up to his back and every muscle in his body sore and tense.

_"Illya!"_

He hears the voice calling him but his eyes are still clouded, lost in a horrible nightmare.

 _"No... no..."_ he whispers in shock, panting, trembling on the bed, until Napoleon sits down next to him cupping the Russian's face in his hands.

_"It's over! It's all right! It's over, you understand?"_

Illya's hands suddenly rise and claw at the American's biceps just above the elbow, hard enough to make him out a muffled groan from the lips.

_"Mmh...! It's over! Illya! You're safe now!"_

_"No..."_

Illya's eyes are lost, as if he cannot focus on what he has in front of him. With every second that passes he seems more out of breath, with his chest so quick to come up and down like his heart is about to jump out.

The grip on his arms gets harder, and harder. Napoleon takes a deep breath. He knows what to do.

He loosens his grip on Illya's face and with his fingers he gently brushes away his blonde hair from his sweaty forehead, then stroking the nape of his neck in a gentle caresss

" _It's me. There's no one here. Just me, Illya..."_

Something immediately is different: his breathing, the tention in his muscles, the strenght in his grip.

_"Peril? It's Cowboy..."_

...And at last his look, too. His bright blue eyes finally move up to see the figure in front of him, fear and anxiety vanished, giving way to confusion and disbelief.

 _"Cowboy?"_ Illya breathes, letting him go. Napoleon lets him, seeing the embarrassment growing in his eys.

 _"It must have been a remarkable nightmare,"_ Napoleon says, almost amused, immediately changing his tone to prevent any other emotion to jump between them.

Illya keeps still for a moment, looking down at his sweating body, aching with tension and wounds not yet healed, before looking up at Napoleon.

 _"Yes... Yes."_ It's all he says, before sliding his legs off the bed and trying to stand up.

_"Wait, I can hel-"_

_"No. I can do it."_ Illya stopped him raising his hand, firm and resolute, not giving him the time to even take a step.

 _"I'll make you something to eat, then."_ Napoleon replied, walking towards the door, clenching and unclenching his fists and tensing his biceps to relieve the numbness caused by the Russian's grip.

_"I am not hungr-"_

_"It wasn't a question."_ Napoleon interrupts him before he could finish. He glances at Illya, just in time to see him taking off his t-shirt, revealing the scratches and the bandages that covered his shoulders and his back.

 _"I'll wait for you in the living room,"_ he says, closing the door, as shivers run down his spine, the same shivers that had gotten into him when he had Illya dying in his arms.

\-----------------------------

 

I hope that you'll catch me 'cause I'm already falling...

 

  
Napoleon was able to make him eat a whole plate of pasta, and threatened him to force him to eat another if he didn't sit still, leaving the wash up to him.

He's drying his hands in a flower apron found in the apartment, when Illya speaks up.

 _"Why are you babysitting me?"_ he asks, folding his hands on the table, a bit annoyed but genuinely curious to understand what's happening here.

 _"Your therapist said that you have to express your feelings about the incident, open yourself up with someone."_ Napoleon answers, doing a bad impression of the doctor's tone, as he takes off his apron and goes back to his chair, next to the head of the table where Illya's sitting.

 _"идиот."_ Illya spits between his teeth, nervously rubbing his fingers.

 _"Yes, I agree. He looked like an idiot."_ Napoleon says, immediately catching Illya's gaze on himself.

 _"Then why are you doing this?"_ he asks, even more confused, while the American leans back in his chair, looking down at the table to think about what to say.

 _"Well, I don't think you should feel compelled to talk to someone if you don't want to."_ And that's the truth, he's not lying or using one of his tricks to deceive him, and Illya undestands it.

_"But I think you need someone to stay by your side."_

And in that moment Napoleon looks up and meets Illya's beautiful eyes while a long and thick silence falls between them, interrupted only by their breaths.

Illya opens his mouth, as if he's about to say something, but no sound comes out of his throat. At the same time a slight smile appears on Napoleon's face and the Russian notices it right away, lowering his blue eyes on his lips.

Quick like a blink of an eye, but at the same time in a seemingly endless instant, Illya darts his gaze from Napoleon's eyes to his lips a couple of times. But only when an inusual, irrational, forbidden thought crosses his mind like a lighthing, the Russian jumps to his feet and without saying a word turns to go back to his room.

 _"Illya?"_ Napoleon jumps on his feet too, trying to keep up with him, but without success.

 _"I do not need your help."_ Illya almost growls, running into the room and immediately locking the door behind himself.

Napoleon steps back just in time to avoid getting hit in the face. He doesn't know what to say that can somehow change the situation. He knows that Illya is subborn, and he cannot force him to talk. He can't do anything, but he can stay close, he can be there for him.

He will stay close.

Illya can slam all the doors in his face, but he won't leave, he won't leave him alone.

\-----------------------------

 

I'll never let our love get so close...

 

  
It's 2 a.m. when Napoleon decides to take at least 2 or 3 hours to lie down and turn his brain off with some good music.

He gets up from the couch leaving the book he found in the house there on the tea table and heads for the bedroom.

He slows down in front of Illya's room just for a second but, hearing no noise coming from inside, he goes on and enters his own room without even turning the light on.

To take off his shirt and the vest is a relief, not to mention his trousers; he throws everything over a chair and categorically refuses to wear any pajamas.

Unfortunately, he cannot enjoy the pleasure of taking a shower, because he would wake up the whole house, so he just dunks his face in the sink full of water for a few seconds, to get stress and anxiety off his body.

He stays a few moments staring at his reflection in the mirror over the sink: tense shoulders, tired eyes, wet hair trailing shining drops all over his face. He grabs a towel and pulls it over his face, going back to the room, dragging his feet towards the bed.

He almost has a heart attack when, dropped the towel to the ground, he turns and finds Illya standing in the doorway, wearing a pair of grey boxer briefs, a t-shirt and a scared, nervous look on his face, like when he has to reply to a question which he doesn't know how to answer.

 _"Illya, what... are you alright?"_ Napoleon asks, turning on the lamp. As soon as the yellow light hit his body, Illya takes a step back, startled.

 _"What... Did I-?"_ he stutters, pointing at Napoleon's arms. He looks down, and sees the reddening bruises that Illya had put there during his nightmare.

 _"It's nothing, don't worry about it. It's fine. I'm fine,"_ he reassures him quickly, getting closer as if to show his marked but unharmed arms.

 _"See? Fine. They will be gone in a couple days."_ he says smiling, like a rich man with a stain on his tie, which has to be only washed to be good as new again.

Illya doesn't laugh.

He gets closer with a serious face, raising his hands and softly touching the american's biceps, as if he's afraid of breaking him. For a few second no word is uttered and no exchange of glances attempted, until Illya seems to stop breathing for a long moment.

_"Illya? Are you al-?"_

_"You were right."_

Napoleon gasps, more because of the sudden words, than for their meaning. _"Was I?"_ , he wonders, vaguely amused. He wonders what he was right about, of the many things he said to him up to this moment.

 _"I need someone,"_ Illya says, dispelling his doubts, passing his fingers on his bruises.

Napoleon smiles and sighs, finally relaxing at the words coming out of the Russian's mouth. The next day, he and Gaby were going to sit him down in the kitchen and then-

_"I need you."_

If the hit he had felt when he had found Illya in the enemies' den was a punch, those words are like a whip on his back. He feels being swept off his feet, and when Illya's eyes look up from his arm and meet his own, something explodes in his chest like boiling lava in a volcano.

But there's something strange in the Russian's gaze, something that doesn't allow Napoleon to fully realize what is really going on between them.

Fear. Worry. Tension.

Not because of what he just said, but because of what happened days ago, what he must, he wants to leave behind him, and that only Napoleon can help him to forget.

He partes his lips, but before he can say anything Napoleon places a hand on his heart, moving closer, so as their chests can almost touch.

 _"Shh,"_ he whispers, looking up to Illya from the bottom the almost 4 inches of difference between them; the Russian towers over him in a way that anyone would find scary, but not him, not anymore.

He slips his hand down to his side, reaching for Illya's fingers. He squeezes them in a gentle grip, then he slowly steps away from the other man's body, walking backwards toward the bed.

Illya follows without questions or objections. He allows Napoleon to lead him to sit on the mattress and then to lie down. Napoleon removes his t-shirt, and covers him to the waist with the white sheets.

Just then Napoleon releases the grip on his hand, goes on the other side of the bed and slips under the covers next to him, head raised from the pillow. Their gazes have been locked until that moment, but Napoleon now lets his eyes wander on Illya's face.

He has a scratch near the eye, right over his old scar, a burn on the cheek, and a small cut still inflamed at the edge of his lip, right in the corner of his mouth. The rest of his body is an arabesque of ancient white scars, all healed, and new bruises and lacerations, newly closed with surgical thread. A long white bandage is wrapped on his right shoulder, to cover part of his pec.

His breath his heavy but not scared, and his chest rises and falls with a rhytmic movement that looks almost like a dance to Napoleon's eyes.

He finally lays his head on the pillow, forcing Illya to turn his own a bit to keep looking at him.

 _"If you tell me to stop, I will. Any time."_ Napoleon whispers softly, only getting a little nod of agreement in response.

 _"Close your eyes..."_ he invites him, and Illya does as he asks, turning his face up towards the ceiling, showing a total and complete trust in the man lying beside him.

Only a few seconds pass before Napoleon's fingers start touching his face, drawing the outline, caressing his eyelids, his lips -which immediately part at the touch- and the cut on his lip.

He doesn't know what Napoleon is doing, or why he's doing it, but it works; it's relaxing, but also pleasing, enjoyable. Napoleon's fingers move down his neck, over the collar bones, on the bandage at his shoulder.  
Then suddenly he feels something at his ears, soft and warm.

 _"I'm here,"_ Napoleon whispers beside him, and Illya's hands instinctively tighten their grip on the sheets, while the back of his neck presses harder against the pillow.

_"I'm here for you."_

Napoleon's fingers keep touching down his chest, gently squeezing, touching one by one the ridges of his abs and focusing on the hips for several seconds before slipping under the sheets.

A low moan emerges from Illya's lips at that sligh and private contact, but Napoleon knows that neither of them is ready for that. This isn't the right time. Not today.

He gets closer, pressing his chest against Illya's shoulder and letting his whole body touch Illya's, tangling their legs together.

Illya's breath grows ragged, feeling the warmth of their bodies pressed together, and as Napoleon's lips touch his ear, his jaw and his neck with gentle kisses, a heavy sigh come out of his mouth.

Solo's hand goes up from his stomach to splay firm and passionate right on Illya's heart, feeling it pounding beneath his palm. For a moment Napoleon opens his eyes to look at Illya from above and with surprise he finds his forehead beaded with sweat, a suffering, mortified expression on his face.

 _"Illya..."_ he whispers worried, and Illya immediately opens his eyes, finding himself to swim in the sea of Napoleon's own, letting him understand that what he's seeing on his face is not suffering.

Illya lifts his arm, threading his fingers through Napoleon's wet, dark hair, and smiles. He smiles like no one has ever seen him do. Because no one has ever done something like that for him. No one has ever taken care of him so fondly.

No one has ever touched him like that.

And then, with that knowledge, with those wonderful cerulean eyes watching over him, Illya allows himself to do that irrational, forbidden thing that he had wished to do so badly just few hours earlier, sitting at the dinner table.

He lifts his head, pulling Napoleon's down towards him and closes the splace between their lips with violent passion.

They enjoy the taste of their mouths for several minutes, caressing each other lips, now tenderly, now ardently, and for a brief moment Napoleon can feel the cut on Illya's mouth under his lips. A moment long enough to allow him to gently kiss that cut as if he wants to hael it with his tongue.

When they part, Illya brings both arms around Napoleon's shoulders, pulling him back towars the mattress and they both ends up on their sides, lying into each other's arms.

_"Thank you... Napoleon..."_

Hearing his name pronounced in that lovely russian accent, Napoleon feels his breath taken away, but he gets it back right away on Illya's lips.

 

  
You put your arms around me and I'm home...

**Author's Note:**

> I drew a pic of this fic 'cause I couldn't resist.  
> Check it here: http://darksideofafangirl.tumblr.com/post/130259926289/your-arms-it-took-them-more-than-a-week-to-find
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks to my dear friend Collie for the beta. http://deerna.tumblr.com/


End file.
